


Season 7 Missing Scene - A Raven Arrives

by Nurdles



Series: Game of Thrones Missing Show Scenes [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension, oathkeeper, show canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-15 02:05:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11796180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nurdles/pseuds/Nurdles
Summary: Show-canon addition: In season 7, Episode 4, Jaime Lannister charged Daenerys Targaryn and Drogon. At the last second, Bronn tackles Jaime from horseback, and the last thing anyone saw of them, they were sinking in a lake. This story takes you to Brienne in Winterfell, some days later.For Sandwichesyumyum.





	1. Sworn to Serve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SandwichesYumYum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandwichesYumYum/gifts).



Brienne walked down the empty corridor carrying a lumpy candle, its weak wisp of flame barely enough to see from by, one torch to the next. Only every third sconce held a torch now, to save on pitch and tallow for the darkness to come.

When she reached the now-familiar door, Brienne used the rusty key she kept in her boot to go inside. She used the candle she'd carried in to light a much larger candle before blowing it out. Brienne would need its light later, when she took her nightly walk around the Great Keep and along the walls. 

She set both candles on the traveling trunk at the foot of the bed and sat down to remove her boots. Her bed chamber was further than she liked from the center of the keep, where the Stark family's rooms were concentrated. At least she felt more confident in the men standing guard there, since Arya's arrival.

The young woman had assigned herself the task of improving castle security after her barely-challenged arrival at Winterfell. Though her methods and timing varied, it was swiftly demonstrated that a guardsman who finds himself quite suddenly on his back with the tip of dagger hovering between his eyes wasn't likely to be caught unawares again.

By the end of a week, the men guarding the towers and walls of Winterfell had been wound tighter than the rope on a trebuchet. Arya had pinned only five guards in total, but that was all it had taken for the lot of them to shape up. Nothing less clever than Arya would be able to get past them, so vigilant they became for fear of being stalked by a slip of a girl not yet into her eighteenth year.

Brienne was glad of the guards' renewed vigilance, because just now she was in need of a rest after another tiring day. Mornings now were dedicated to sparring with Pod, while the hours after the midday meal were spent in training a handful of the more skillful young men and women of the northern houses. These were the sons and daughters who would fight against monsters out of legend, monstrous beings that their fathers, many of them perished during the war of five kings, had never imagined could exist.

The scant, final hours of daylight and into the early dusk were spent with Arya, sparring in the cavernous crypts beneath Winterfell. Meeting there had become necessary once they began to attract onlookers in the main yard.

At first Brienne had grumbled about the poor lighting, despite there being enough candles burning there to light several dim passages in the keep. Arya, with an unsettling, secretive smile, only remarked that there were advantages to knowing how to fight in the dark.  

Other than the Starks and their closest advisors or servants, few people were allowed to visit the crypts, for which Brienne was grateful. The sparring sessions had benefitted both women, whose individual styles had undergone subtle changes since that first challenge in the yard nearly three weeks past. 

Arya's swordplay was becoming less dependent on tricky footwork as she gained strength and muscle, while Brienne's became more light-footed and agile. The differences in the way each woman fought would have been obvious to anyone knowledgeable about swordplay. 

Sansa, who came mostly to get away from Little Finger, knew no more about swordplay than she when she'd first left Winterfell. Podrick, however, noticed the changes within the first week, soon after Arya had set aside Needle for a short sword and Brienne added a blunted dagger to her arsenal. 

Brandon Stark, who sometimes came to sit near them in his wheeled chair, had no interest in their sparring. His inward stare made Brienne uneasy. It was as though he was already ahead of them, staring into a future where she and Arya had long been dust. Catelyn Stark's second son was not as he had been, before Jaime pushed him from that tower window. 

It made Brienne uneasy, to be so near to the place that Jaime had committed his most heinous act. She often wondered which tower he and his sister and Bran had been in, that she might avoid going near it. Perhaps it had burned or fallen when the Ironborn ransacked Winterfell. 

Whatever the fate of the tower, Brandon was now the Three Eyed Raven, and no longer seemed wholly human. Brienne had never been one to believe in the magical arts. Even as a child, when tales of dragons and sorcerers had filled her head, she'd been too pragmatic to _believe_ in them.

Then Brienne had seen a shadow assassin kill Renly Baratheon. It was no true blade of steel or iron she'd seen rip through his heart that night. He'd gasped his last breath, blood bubbling up though the great rent in his chest, and she'd held him for the first and last time.

To hear Davos Seaworth tell it, Stannis lost his soul, if not his life, when the Red Woman birthed his shadow-twin into the world to kill his own brother. 

That Brienne and Ser Davos should came to speak together of those events had been something of a surprise. Over a month had passed since her imperious announcement to Stannis' Hand and the priestess of the Red God that she, Brienne of Tarth, had executed the most important person in either of their lives.

In that moment of righteous triumph, it had never occurred to Brienne that she'd be in close quarters with Ser Davos and Melisandre almost daily, and possibly for years, as winter wore on. Melisandre, as much to blame for Renly's murder as Stannis, had thereafter elaborately ignored Brienne, until abruptly disappearing from Winterfell in a swirl of foul rumors.

It was more difficult with Ser Davos, for they could not avoid often being often in the same company as meetings for the defense of Winterfell involved them both. The onion knight had scrupulously avoided looking at Brienne altogether, which suited her fine.

That state seemed likely to continue indefinitely, until one frosty night found the two of them alone in the dining hall. Brienne had claimed a bench by the great hearth, legs stretched out to the fire, hoping to ease some of the constant chill of working in the yard. Davos, slouched down in a chair with a horn of ale in one fist, had been at the far end of the room.

Ser Davos had spent much time staring blearily into the mug before seeming to abandon his attempts to ignore Brienne. On that dark night, winds howling outside the Keep, the graybeard looked up from his cup and right at her, holding her gaze until she'd looked away.

Dreading an ale-fueled confrontation, Brienne plotted an inoffensive escape, yawning and setting her own mug on the floor beside her, making clear her intention of leaving the hall. Before she could rise, however, Davos, on unsteady legs, began making his way through the tables and benches to the hearth.

There had been no option but to stay and wait for him. Brienne would not be seen to run from confrontation, no matter how much she wished to. When the man stopped a few feet from her, she stood to acknowledge him, suddenly feeling like a small child about to be rebuked for some misdeed by a kindly and slightly drunk grandfather. 

"Ser Davos," she'd nodded, somewhat grateful that she towered over the man.

"Lady Brienne," Ser Davos had said, his voice betraying no edge of mockery. "Might I sit alongside you by the fire? The chill takes a toll on an old southerner like myself."

"You are welcome, Ser," Brienne sat down further along the bench so he might be closer to the fire.

Davos had settled beside her, staring into the flames for a long moment, a series of emotions passing over his face before he'd finally opened his mouth to speak. The dreaded accusations and blame never came. Instead, he'd begun to speak of how he'd come to serve the elder Baratheon, a gruff recounting of Stannis' honor and fairness.

Brienne listened respectfully, but remained silent. Of Stannis' slaying of Renly, Davos explained to her how the shadowbinder Melisandre had brought the king's malevolent fetch into the world, and his own part in allowing it to happen. When the knight turned to meet Brienne's eyes at last, she was surprised by the anguish in his own.

Stannis had become a slave of the red god on that night, driven to claim victory over his rivals through blood magic. It could never be known for certain, Davos insisted, whether the other rivals for the Iron Throne, Robb Stark, Joffrey Baratheon, and Balon Greyjoy, had died at the hands of others, or been magically doomed the night Stannis burned three blood-engorged leeches in the brazier.

Davos described the smell of them, the  **sizzle**  and  _pop_  as the worms burst. Brienne was riveted, horror-struck by the depth of Stannis and his red woman's depravity. When the knight began speaking of Stannis' young daughter Shireen, his voice became strained, only a few small, hard words able to escape in his anger and grief:  _innocent,_   _sacrificed_ ,  _burned_ ,  _red_ ** _bitch_**. 

It was clear to Brienne that Davos blamed Melisandre more than the man that he'd vowed to serve for all of his days. Brienne had stifled the urge to remind him of why Stannis deserved to die. She couldn't help but to admire someone whose own obsessive sense of loyalty and honor rivaled her own. 

Did Ser Davos, too, lie awake nights, wondering at where his vows had brought him? He would have been within his rights to leave the north at first word of Stannis' death, and even more so when he'd discovered the truth about the sacrifice of Shireen.

Former smuggler and Hand to an executed pretender king, Ser Davos could have gotten well away from the coming night and found a ship bound east, to warmer ports. Yet he'd stayed to serve another king, just as Brienne had vowed to serve Catelyn Stark soon after Renly was killed.

Brienne and Ser Davos, sitting at the Stark hearth and talking into the night, had become allies of a sort afterwards, and now that he'd gone on to Dragonstone with Jon Snow, Brienne found herself missing his self-deprecating humor and stubborn honor.

Though she was an honored member of the Stark household, there were still very few people here other than Podrick that she would call friend. Brienne sat down tiredly on the lumpy mattress in her small chamber. Her room was comfortable enough, and Sansa had taken the time to decorate it herself. Lots of Stark grey, a bit of sage green, the space was feminine without being a commentary on the fact that Brienne was a  _Lady_ rather than a knight.

The walls, mottled and smudged from the smoke of fires set by the Greyjoy traitor, reminded Brienne of the dingy snow she saw kicked up along the edges of pathways and roads here. Winterfell was in need of repairs that would need to wait until Spring, if anyone survived to make them.

Sansa never publicly spoke against the man who'd torched her home and murdered her family's servants. Theon had helped her escape from Ramsay, and for that, Sansa was indebted to him. 

Privately, however, the younger woman had confided in Brienne about Theon's betrayals and complicity during her captivity. There was no question that she despised Theon with all her heart.

Brienne could never forgive Theon; he'd never have helped Sansa had his own life not been in danger. She was not loathe, however, to share the credit for Sansa's rescue with him, for without his actions that night, Brienne might have missed her chance to avenge Renly.

When she'd found Stannis sat up against that tree in the snowy wood, he'd been already close to death, blood flowing from more than one wound to brighten the snow around him. Finally confronting Stannis with his crimes and sentencing him to death had felt strangely hollow in the absence of the man's fear. He was  _grateful_ , the rotten bastard. He'd known that if Ramsey had been the one to find him, his death would have been far from quick or clean.

Brienne had found no satisfaction later, in announcing her deed to Ser Davos and Lady Melisandre. Renly had been avenged, just as she'd promised, but his elder brother's empty acknowledgement of the crime would never bring her king back.

Though she tried, Brienne was no longer to recall her lord's face or the sound of his voice. The man she'd sworn to serve all her days was no more than a distant memory now, while the white-lipped face of Stannis, his dark, empty eyes calmly fixed upon the horizon, could never be forgotten.

Catelyn's face was far easier to remember, for as intensely as Brienne had once watched and admired Renly Baratheon, it had not equaled the way she'd come to know Lady Stark. The woman's courage, her goodness, had imbued her with something of the Mother's light for Brienne. She'd followed Renly out of youthful infatuation, but Catelyn Stark she had served as she might have served her own father, had he allowed it. Or her mother, had she lived to require it.

Brienne stood to unlace her jerkin to hang it from a double hook on the door, hearing Cersei's words in her head again:  _You serve any lord or lady you fancy_. Could she deny it, with Renly and Lady Stark? Renly because she'd believed herself in love with him, and Catelyn because she showed Brienne something akin to a mother's love, for the first time she could remember.

But what had Brienne known of the Starks, really? Their soldiers were crude and violent, practically indistinguishable from the Lannisters and Baratheons. She'd never even met King Robb, though she knew that the breaking of his word had led to many more deaths than his own. Jaime's confession about the night he'd slain Aerys Targaryen had not shown Ned Stark in a positive light, either.

Yet here she was, far from her father and Tarth, serving in Winterfell. From Renly to Catelyn to Sansa, though she'd spent more time with Jaime Lannister than any of the others, and knew him better. Brienne sighed, recalling her response to Cersei's accusation:  _I don't serve your brother, your grace_. The man had honor, not that anyone else recognized it. No, she had not served Jaime Lannister, and never would. 

_But you love him_. 

Brienne shook her head in fervent denial, though no one was there to see.  
What did Cersei know of love? That Ser Jaime loved his sister was known by all, though she'd seen little enough evidence that his feelings were met with equal devotion. 

Even Jaime accepted that he and his sister's relationship was not ideal. _We don't get to choose who we love_ , he'd told her back when he was her captive and she about thirty seconds from ripping his hair out by the roots. He'd been right, of course. Brienne certainly never chose to fall in love with _him_. Thank the gods he'd never know.

She'd declared that Jaime Lannister wasn't her friend when Brynden Tully had implied otherwise in the Riverlands. Brienne had been almost grateful to address the speculation, the pointed looks and whispers that always ran ahead of her once Oathkeeper was noticed. She'd thought to enter the keep with a lesser sword, having returned the Valyrian steel to its owner, but against all expectation, Jaime had refused to take it back. 

So Brienne still wore a sword with a golden lion on the pommel, along with the Lannister-red belts she'd refused to set aside in favor of the Stark-grey set Sansa had given her.  

 _I don't serve the Starks_ , she'd insisted more than once, _I serve Lady Catelyn_. Though now that she'd sworn to that lady's daughter, she was less sure where her vows ended. Apparently, Brienne now served both Stark sisters, though she'd never made such an oath.

Brienne had felt uneasy about allowing Arya to presume on such a service to demand Brienne train her. Not that she regretted working with Sansa's younger sister, though she wasn't bound to do so. Thankfully, Arya didn't seem the sort to demand a formal oath.  
Arya was a bit like Jaime in that; he'd never asked for her word about anything, though she'd required his more than once. It might have been easier on Brienne if he had. 

Brienne sat back down to remove her boots. If only Jaime _had_ asked her for vows similar to those Catelyn had demanded of him. He might have asked Brienne to swear never to raise arms against the Lannisters before allowing her to cross the siege lines and enter Riverrun. Come to that, he could have made it a condition before giving her a sword and a quest to find a girl considered a traitor to his family.

When they'd parted in King's Landing, it hadn't seemed possible that they'd ever meet again. It had taken all of the reserve Brienne had to warn him that honor demanded she fight him, if he attacked the Tullys.

 _Let's hope that doesn't happen_. His last words to her, softly spoken. And he'd kept that long-ago vow to never raise arms against the Starks or Tullys, though how he'd managed it, no one really knew. Her last glimpse of him, waving to her from the parapets of Riverrun had likely been her last. 

_But you love him_.

Brienne shut her eyes, weary of the words. Words were wind, so it was said, but Cersei's were well-aimed darts, striking so deeply that Brienne would never be able to pluck them out. The sting had lessened some with time and distance, when the only tangible connection remaining between her and Jaime was Oathkeeper, a covenant of the vow they'd both sworn that night in Riverrun.

Returning to the very place she'd met Jaime, in order to secure the Blackfish's aid in the Battle of the Bastards, Brienne had discovered how little she'd been able to put her feelings for the maimed knight behind her. Watching him from a hill overlooking the Lannister camp, riding among the orderly red tents on his white horse, he'd reminded her of a hero in a tale. Even his gold hand, catching the morning light like some sort of beacon, was beautiful.  
  
When Brienne had left the Wall at Sansa's command, it hadn't yet been known that the Lannister army had been deployed to end the siege of Riverrun. It had long been in her mind that Oathkeeper should be restored to Jaime, though she treasured the sword above all else she owned. The unexpected opportunity to do so had occurred to her atop that hill.  
She'd decided then that she would tell Jaime that their vow was kept, and return to him that which still bound them. He still had her heart, and she his sword; a fair exchange could be made. The spell would be broken at last.

When the guards had finally escorted Brienne to the commander's tent, the task she'd come so far to attempt had not been foremost in her mind. Mentally preparing herself to see Jaime again had consumed the agonizing seconds before she was announced.

For Ser Jaime's part, he'd betrayed no hint of pleasure in seeing Brienne  again, as she'd stood rigidly before him. He'd merely greeted her with some surprise, blithe and cool as though she were a casual acquaintance, happening by on her way to someplace else.

He'd even made light of the quest she'd risked her life to fulfill, implying that he'd never believed she'd succeed. Brienne was abruptly thrown back to their time together in King's Landing; Lord Jaime Lannister was no longer the gravely damaged knight she'd brought home at so great a cost.

No look passed between them to imply they'd ever been more than captive and warden. There seemed no softness in his regard for the woman he'd twice risked his life to save, the woman he'd sent on a quest to fulfill an oath both of them had sworn to.

He'd only scolded her for coming to him in the first place, reminding her that his sister still wanted Lady Sansa dead. Any foolish hopes Brienne that might have entertained over their long months apart, that he felt even a twinge of affection for her, were quickly set down in those first few moments.

Yet, as they spoke, she found that her words still held some weight with Jaime. Though he had an army at his command, he'd listened to her counsel, asked the right questions, and agreed to her plan. 

When the time had come to leave his presence, Brienne had only to return Oathkeeper to end their association forever. But when she'd tried, calling upon the words she'd rehearsed so many times since finding Sansa, Jaime had looked at her with the old, affectionate scorn.  "It's yours. It will always be yours," he'd said, removing the last shred of hope that she'd ever be free of loving him.

Brienne, who'd not shed a tear during the long, frustrating quest for Catelyn's daughters, knew that if she didn't get away from him right then, the tears that threatened to spill would show her to be the weak and foolish woman she was. She'd rather face a hoard of wights than allow that.

Jaime had followed her to the tent flap, teasingly calling her _Lady Brienne_ when she'd paused and tried to address him formally, to tell him she would be honor bound to fight him, should he attack the castle.

It was then that Brienne looked into his eyes and saw  _her_  Jaime. There had been fully as much frustrated emotion in his face as must be obvious in hers. He might not love her as she did him, but he cared about her all the same. He'd not forgotten all they'd been through after all.  
It was more than she'd expected, and more than she could endure in that moment. She'd fled the tent and, in the end, failed to convince Brynden Tully to aid his niece in taking back Winterfell. 

Brienne lay back against the single hard cushion on her bed, tired and unaccountably sad. Oathkeeper was hers, but Jaime never would be. It was for the best. Her duty was here, and she found a measure of satisfaction in that. War was coming again, and she felt certain that the threat to the north was of more urgency than threats from Queen Cersei, no matter how Lady Sansa worried.

Jon had gone to convince the dragon queen to help, and a raven had come recently with news that the Targaryen woman had granted permission to mine the much-needed dragon glass beneath her ancestral stronghold. Everyone had breathed a sigh of relief, knowing their King in the North was not in danger and would soon be home with the makings for weapons to defeat the Others.

Brienne closed her eyes and swung her feet onto the bed. She had duties to fulfill, a purpose to dedicate her life to. Whatever might come, she'd be ready for it. She closed her eyes and drifted into a light slumber.

Someone pounding urgently on her door and the sound of men running down the corridors, shouting jubilantly and rousing the castle, woke her. A raven had come, men called to each other, there was to be an announcement in the Great Hall in ten minutes' time.

Was Jon Snow on his way home? Had they found a new way to defend against the sorcery of the Night King? Brienne put her jerkin, boots and sword belt back on and relit the taper. At the last instant she decided to leave the candle burning beside the bed; she'd not need to patrol the perimeter of the keep until well after the commotion had died down, and she was still sleepy.

She traipsed down the hall among a throng of exited men and women, hearing the words  _dragon_  and  _army_  and  _Daenerys_  echoing among them. Was the Targaryen heiress and her dragons coming to help them with her army? Brienne felt a surge of hope.

The great hall was full when she got there, Sansa already in her accustomed place at the head table, standing tall with a narrow scroll clutched in her hand. Silence was called for, and the crowd settled into an expectant hush. Sansa unrolled the message as though to read it, though she obviously knew its contents without looking at it again.

"I've just received this from Jon at Dragonstone," she began, "Several days ago, the Dothraki army engaged the Lannisters near the Blackwater rush as they were returning from sacking Highgarden." Cheers erupted from the floor, and the Lady of Winterfell smiled, "Daenerys Targaryen rode her dragon into battle and was victorious. The Lannister army was soundly defeated."

The crowd roared with approval, and Brienne leaned against the wall for support as the blood drained from her face. He wouldn't, couldn't have been –

"Jaime Lannister," Sansa said with relish, "was burned to death trying to attack the dragon. The Kingslayer is dead."


	2. Only in Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter, covering Brienne's reaction to the news that Jaime Lannister was killed (spoiler: he wasn't!) when he charged Drogon in Season 7, Episode 4. This takes the story to the end of episode 6. 
> 
> Have your tissues ready!

Excited murmurs ran round the great hall at the news of Jaime's death and the defeat of his army, as Sansa went on to tell them that the dragon queen had rounded up the survivors and demanded they bend the knee. Lord Randyll Tarly and his son, Dickon, had refused and been burned to ash by Daenerys' dragon. The rest of the survivors had quickly knelt, and were spared.

Some in the hall laughed at this news, while others thumped one another on the back, confident that Jon had made a powerful ally in the dual war against Cersei and the white walkers. Lady Sansa sent the servants scurrying for ale for Winterfell's folk to toast the great victory. 

Brienne was immobile for long moments, only the stone wall at her back keeping her upright. The sound of the people she lived side by side with, celebrating the demise of thousands of men by fire, was a wordless roar in her head. Several were looking her way, to see if the warrior woman who was sworn to the Starks, yet still carried a Lannister sword, would be joining in the celebration. 

She saw Pod struggling to reach her from the other side of the hall, his face full of concern. A horn of ale was thrust into his hand and he was pulled, unwilling, into a circle of other young men. He caught Brienne's eye and she somberly shook her hand, gesturing for him to stay where he was. Someone was holding a cup out to her, but she noticed nothing more than their cheerful smile as she blurted, "I'm not thirsty," and stumbled from the room. 

Her taper was gone, perhaps dropped when she had heard that Jaime was dead. It didn't matter; no amount of light could guide her now, as her vision blurred with tears. She fled down the hall on wobbly legs, her fingers scraping over stone walls to keep from falling. The emptiness between torches stretched until it seemed as though her whole world had been plunged into darkness.  How would she find her way? 

In despair, Brienne stopped, panting, and leaned her back against the rough wall. If she were to lie down right where she was, to curl into a ball of misery there in the dark, perhaps no one would notice, and eventually she'd become one with the lifeless earth beneath her. 

But no, it was unlikely she'd be left in peace. Someone coming back from the revelry would stumble over her eventually, and an alarm would be raised, a maester would be called to see to her and questions asked. Brienne forced herself to go on, liberating the next torch she came to from its sconce to guide her.

Arriving at her door at last, she replaced the torch in the nearest empty bracket, just a few yards past her door, and shut herself inside, grateful that she'd left her candle burning. 

Ever since the day they'd parted at the Red Keep, Brienne to find Lady Sansa and Jaime to continue as Lord Commander of the King's Guard, Brienne had comforted herself that she'd somehow _know_ if Jaime were killed. She'd feel it like the shock of sword striking bone, like the searing pain of an arrow strike, no matter where either of them was…

 _How can he be dead?_ _He couldn't be_ … she'd have sensed it somehow, would have known it the _instant_ –

Yet that 'instant' had been days past. And she'd sensed nothing. No jolt to the heart, no Stark swan flying over her grave, no sudden, crushing – 

Suddenly, she couldn't breathe, the truth crashing down on her like the sorrows of the Seven, bearing her down to her bed to clutch at the furs, gasping as waves of grief swept her into a place of such profound misery that she almost wished that she, too, had perished there beside Jaime. 

There would be no such oblivion of death for Brienne, nor, she realized, any peace from the living world. Someone was pounding on the door to her chamber and calling her name. Though it took two tries to find her voice, Brienne called out, "Yes? Who's there?" 

"Podrick, my lady."

"What do you need, Podrick?" 

"I wanted to check on you, my lady. I mean, with the…news, and all. I know that you and ser –"

Brienne got off the bed and wrenched open the door. She mustn't let anyone hear Pod, lest all of Winterfell come to know of her grief.  _To everyone else, he's just the Kingslayer_. "Ser Jaime and I are not – _were_ not –" 

Pod's eyebrows went up in alarm. She must look just as she felt. "My lady, you need to sit down," he pushed his way inside, taking her hand to pull her to the bed. 

"I _was_ sitting down," she said dully. 

"Here," Pod set his candle down and pushed down on her forearms. Brienne dropped onto the bed without protest. He trotted the few steps to the door and shut it. "You need something to drink, my lady." 

While Pod poured from the pitcher on the bureau, Brienne struggled to arrange her expression into something less tragic. Podrick was a sensitive lad, and the news of so many people burning to death all at once might have triggered memories of the Battle of Blackwater. The shores of the bay, he had told her once, had been foul with ashes and charred, greasy flesh for weeks afterward. Was dragon fire as explosive as wildfire?

"My lady? My lady?" Brienne looked up at Podrick vaguely. He was holding out a goblet of water. She took it in both hands and drank as Podrick opened the wooden chest at the foot of her bed, "As I was saying, my lady, when Lady Sansa read that in the hall, I tried to get to you then. But I was stopped by that big fellow, from House Woolsfield? By the time I looked up you had gone." He handed her a bit of fabric and went to refill her cup, "You can wipe your eyes with that, my lady."

"Thank you, Podrick," Brienne said, swiping at her nose. The tears seemed to have already dried. She balled the bit of linen up in her fists and held it in her lap. 

"When Lady Sansa said that ser Jaime was dead, my lady, I knew I needed to get to you! Jaime was your –"

"No, he was not." _Whatever it was, he was **not** mine_.

"But…but Bronn hinted that..that the two of you were..."

Bronn would. "What, Pod?"

He handed the goblet back, "Um, together, my lady."

"Together?" Brienne said, trying to scoff but only managing a small hiccup, "He was mistaken. Ser Jaime and I had no...understanding." She felt her face heating. 

"Oh, he didn't mean it that way," Podrick assured her.

"Certainly not," Brienne sipped some water and set the goblet aside, morbidly curious as a child picking at a newly-formed scab, "What did he mean, specifically?"

"Bronn?"

"Yes."

"Um," it was Podrick's turn to blush, "he said he thought you were fucking. Pardon my language, my lady."

"And why would he say that?" Again, Bronn would. Brienne wondered what rationalization the man had come up with: Oathkeeper? The armor? Just being a woman, any woman, in a tent with a handsome man? 

"It was on account of how you look at each other, my lady," Podrick told her warily, "He...he said Ser Jaime would want to, for sure."

 _Oh._ "Ser Jaime and I..." Brienne took a shuddering breath, "Well, it doesn't matter now, does it?" She took another sip of water, trying to swallow the painful lump in her throat.  

"It _does_ matter," he looked like he wanted to stamp his foot, "Bronn's not blind and neither am I, my lady. You loved him."

Brienne shook her head, tears starting again, "Pod –"

"And he loved you. Bronn saw it back in King's Landing." 

A dozen denials went through her head, but she wasn't going to start lying now. "Thank you, Podrick. I really need to be alone right now."

His face creased with worry, "Is there anything you need my lady? Anything at all?"

 _Jaime, alive_. "No, thank you. Thank you…for caring."

"If you're certain, my lady." Pod hesitated by the door, came back, "At least let me get your boots and cloak. Would you like me to hang Oathkeeper for you?"

"No, I can see to myself," Brienne said, "but I...I feel as though I've got a sore throat coming on...I think I might need to miss practice tomorrow."

"It's probably just sore from crying, my lady. I could fetch some nice tea -"

"No. No, I think I'm getting sick."

"You? You're the healthiest person I know. Even when I got the runs after we both ate that gravy -"

"Nevertheless," Brienne emphasized, "I don't feel well. It might just be the morning sessions. Just until I feel better."

Pod gave in, "As you wish, my lady." He reached for the handle, "I'm very sorry. Truly. Ser Jaime was a hero. Tyrion worshipped him."

"Yes," Brienne nodded, "He was. More than anyone knew. I'll be back in the yard by tomorrow afternoon." She watched the door shut behind Pod, listening for the door to latch for his footsteps to fade away. 

_He loved you_. 

Was that true? Brienne crumpled on to her side like a tower made of loose, wet sand, a formless lump only occasionally jolted by the sobs breaking loose from the very heart of her, until she slept. Her dreams were mired in memories, spinning her about and making her tears run even in sleep. 

Jaime, wheeling his white horse around to flash his mocking grin at her before leveling his spear and galloping away, away to the horizon, where the red-gold flame of the rising sun embraced him, flaring so brightly when they met that the sight was seared from her eyes.

A golden afternoon, and Jaime again, this time standing on an outcropping, younger and dressed in a simple tunic with no blazon. He still had both hands, and a laughing arrogance that he wore like a summer cloak. Gusts of wind rising from the sea below riffled his sun-bleached hair and he laughed, his face still soft and rounded with youth. He barely glanced her way as he strode past, calling over his shoulder as he disappeared down a fall of boulders, "Coming, Brienne?" She stumbled after him.

It was dark. They were in a cave, its walls shimmering with moisture. The sand beneath Brienne's feet was soft, the ankle deep water cold and biting. The smell of salt and rot told Brienne that the sea was close. Jaime's back was to her, and she heard him cry out, "Don't leave me here alone! Don't leave me here in the dark -" His voice was anguished, afraid, "at least give me a sword!" 

"I gave you a sword," said a cold voice from above them. Jaime's father, Lord Tywin. 

Jaime hesitated, then bent to retrieve a sword from the shallow water. As he raised it, a silvery blue light flared at the tip, trickling down the blade almost to the hilt he held in his right hand. He was whole, and in the shimmering light Brienne could see that he was naked, but healthier than he'd been in the baths of Harrenhal; his arms and legs were solid with muscle, and there was a sheen to his hair even in the uneven light. Jaime's shoulders tensed as he crouched low, ready for battle. 

"I swore to keep you safe," Brienne said into the silence _, I failed_. Jaime whirled to face her, "I swore a holy oath," she insisted, lifting her hands in supplication; they were chained, the irons heavy on her wrists. Jaime's eyes were wide and dark but for the spark of silver-blue reflecting from Widow's Wail. _Why does he have Joffrey's sword?_  

She held out her arms, "Ser. Please, if you would be so good," and he used the Valyrian steel to sever the chain, the links falling away to splash in the water. Jaime regarded her somberly for a long moment, and Brienne realized that she, too, was naked. "A sword," she begged, shivering, _to keep you safe_.

Oathkeeper, in its scabbard on the Lannister-red belts Jaime had given her, was suddenly in her hands. She quickly strapped them around her hips and waist as Jaime watched. She drew forth the long sword and it, too, lit with ice-blue flame.  The hilt was warm and familiar in her hand as she swung it experimentally, the flame streaming and reflecting in the water like a wisp of winter itself.

"Do they keep a bear down here?" She asked.

Jaime smiled grimly, "No, no more bears for us, wench."

"I mislike this place, Ser Jaime," she took a step nearer him, and their swords flared brighter, thought beyond their circle of light the darkness deepened. 

"I'm not fond of it myself, lady Brienne," Jaime agreed, "but as long as our swords remain lit, we will survive." 

Brienne put her hand on his shoulder, surprised by how solid his skin felt beneath her fingers. "Jaime, I must return something to you. Your father, Lord Tywin, he said -" 

He put his left hand on her bare hip, drawing her closer, "My father is dead."

"He gave you a sword," Brienne rushed on, "but not that one." She felt the heat of his skin, and her body's familiar response to being near him. She held up Oathkeeper, the blue flames flickering from the lines and whorls in the Valyrian steel, "He gave you this one. Please, take it back. To keep you safe." 

"I told you already, Brienne. It's yours," Jaime raised Widow's Wail, its blade alongside Oathkeeper.  Silver-blue flames joined, fed on each other until the darkness was forced back by the ghost of Ned Stark's great sword, Ice, its blade glowing brighter and brighter until it shattered into a thousand, thousand shards of palest blue and silver white, whirling around them where they stood on top of the world.  

Both swords were sheathed and hanging from sword belts buckled over layers of leather and fur. Jaime's stump was swathed in leather, and his hair was longer. Their gloved fingers were interlaced as they stared out into the blizzard. Jaime brought Brienne's hand up to kiss her snow-dusted knuckles. 

They'd been nothing. He'd been everything. Jaime was looking intently into her eyes, and when she parted her lips to question him, he rose up on his toes to kiss her. They were alone in the vast nothingness, and Jaime was kissing her like he meant it. Like _they_ were everything.

He pulled away and stinging crystals of snow blew between them, mixing with the grey in Jaime's hair. Within her dream, Brienne shuddered with grief to see him older, and watching her with the eyes of a lover. "Please don't leave me," she begged.

He squeezed her hand once and let it go. "Follow me," he said over his fur-covered shoulder, drawing his sword as he walked away.

 _Jaime, I can't follow you in death -_ Yetshe tried to catch up to him, her heavy boots sinking in the snow. The more she struggled to reach him, the deeper it became. But it was no use - the blizzard had cloaked him all in white and he'd vanished. 

"Jaime. Don't leave me!" she sobbed, as winter leached the color from the world and left her shivering in the dark, alone in her bed. 

Brienne opened her eyes. The candlelight was dim, the small flame almost drowning in a well of melted tallow. Her heavy cloak was tangled about her, and she got up to hang from its hook before unstrapping Oathkeeper and laying it, sheathed, to one side of the bed. She shed her boots and jerkin and blew out the candle before getting beneath the bed furs, her hand instinctively closing around the sword's hilt. 

Jaime had told her once that in his dreams he still had his right hand and that he was whole, and had only dreamed that his sword hand was gone. _Let me sleep, then,_ Briennethought, closing her eyes _, for only in dreams do I still have you._

*** 

Someone was pounding urgently at her door. In less time than it took to fully awaken, Brienne was poised by the door, Oathkeeper in hand. "Who is there?" She demanded. _Friend or foe?_

"Uh, _Podrick_ , my lady."

Why was Podrick at her door? Had she fallen asleep with the candle burning? No, what dusty light there was came from the tiny, glazed window set high on the wall. Dawn, maybe? Why had she -?   _Jaime_. She'd forgotten, in that scant moment between dream and reality. Brienne felt the weight of sorrow settling back over her like wet snow. 

She drew in a shaky breath and squared her shoulders before unbolting the door, "What's wrong, Pod?" 

"Wrong, my lady?" Podrick walked past her to light the big candle with his taper. 

Though she loved Podrick dearly, his penchant for re-stating the obvious required patience of the sort Brienne could not muster right then. "You were pounding on my door as though the keep were on fire. What could be –" She paused.   _Jaime_. Her heart leapt, _could Jon have been mistaken?_ "Is there news from the south?"

Podrick busied himself pouring the last of the water into Brienne's goblet, "Not that I've heard." 

_Of course not_. _A second raven, sent even a day later, wouldn't have gotten here so soon_. "What is so urgent then? Is Sansa well?"

"I've not seen her, but she wouldn't be looking for you, my lady. She knows you have responsibilities in the yard." He held out the goblet of water, "I made your excuses to the trainees this morning. About your sore throat, and needing to rest."

"Thank you." Brienne took the cup and set it down, glancing at the chamber pot in its corner, " Would you mind stepping back outside, Podrick?  It's a rather small room." 

Pod, following her gaze, drew himself up with dignity, "Of course, my lady." He went to the door and stopped just inside, hesitating, "My lady?"

Brienne sighed, "I'll let you right back in." He ducked out. 

The rooms in this part of the keep had been constructed with guardsmen in mind; privies and privacy were an amenity no one had considered necessary. Brienne took the time to put her boots and sword belt on before re-opening the door for an anxious Podrick. 

"Why are you armed, ser – my lady?"

"Aren't you here to fetch me for our lesson?"

"Lesson?"

Brienne sighed, "Yes. Fighting lessons?"

"That was hours ago, my lady. I came to check on you earlier. I knocked and knocked, but you never answered."

Brienne turned to look at the little window again. "What time is it?"

"Just past sundown. Maybe a bit later."

 _No wonder he's worried_. "I slept all day? I'm sorry Podrick. What about Arya?"

"I told her you weren't well. There are others in the keep down sick, my lady. No one suspects anything." Pod gave her one of his bashful smiles, "I even led the practice this morning."

Brienne dredged up a smile, "You're a good lad, Podrick."

"Thank you," he beamed. "I bet you're hungry."

"I'm not." Released from her obligation to get up and train, Brienne felt a wave of nausea at the thought of food. Perhaps she _was_ ill.  "I didn't realize there was sickness in the keep."

"It's been around for a week or two. The maester said to tell him right away if you break out in, uh, pus jewels."

 _Pus jewels? Oh._ "Pustules. You'll be the first to know, Pod."

"It's mostly children getting sick," he explained, "The maester said maybe they didn't have this illness on your island, when you were small."

 _Was I ever small?_ "I think I did."

"Well, no one has to  know that though, do they? Do you want to take your boots off? I can bring you something to eat."

 _I should just go to the hall,_ Brienne thought _. No, no I really couldn't. I'm liable to kill the first man who refers to Jaime as the Kingslayer._ "I'm honestly not hungry, but if you want to bring me something that won't spoil, I'd be grateful."

"Right away my lady. You just get comfortable. No one wants you out and about until they're sure you don't have pus jewels. I made sure of that."

 _"_ I'm sure I'll be fine by tomorrow. Thank you again, Podrick. I'm sorry I slept through our lesson." Pod bobbed his head and left the room, seeming pleased to be taking care of Brienne. He would make sure that when she did leave the room, she would be ready to face her responsibilities again. 

In fact, she did not leave it again for almost a week. Pod, true to his word, made sure she had food and fresh water, and arranged for a chamber maid to come twice daily while Brienne was confined to her room. 

There was little rest for her in solitude, though. For the first day or two after, she'd hoped for a raven saying that Jaime had escaped burning after all. He would be hurt, certainly. If that had happened, who would take care of him? Not his sister, she suspected. Especially not if he'd been disfigured. But Brienne would go to him – 

Eventually she realized that no such raven would ever come. No one would send a raven out into this winter just to correct a rumor. Her fantasies of Jaime's miraculous resurrection from the dead – not in the manner Jon Snow had risen – gave way to a sick acceptance of the truth. 

He had died fighting the dragon queen. What a horrible, horrible fate for someone who'd once saved thousands from burning. The gods must be laughing at the irony of it. Brienne spent hours pacing in the small room, anger roiling within her. He led an army, and he'd only the one good hand. Why in the seven hells hadn't he left the battlefield to his soldiers? 

Brienne hoped the hideous metal hand had burned also. They could gather up the steel and gold puddle once it cooled and present it to his sister. It was all she deserved of him. Did she weep? Would she be able to wring any grief from such a miserly heart?

When she'd worn herself out with fury, Brienne felt like an empty husk. She could live with that. _Had_ lived like that. If thoughts of Jaime intruded, she dashed them away. If she would not allow herself to feel, she would get through this. She'd survived Renly's death. And Catelyn's. _Just don't think, Brienne_ , she told herself.

But she could not go without sleep, and in dreams he still came to her. Sometimes they were on the King's Road, going south. Chained together. Other times they were in Riverrun together, in Jaime's tent with the bright sun making the red tent glow with warmth.

"It will always be yours," he'd say, and for once he would take that single step, closing the distance between them. Time would stretch as she looked into his eyes, longer than she'd ever dared to before, barely noticing that her armor was gone as he maneuvered her to the raised bed in his tent. Sometimes he'd already begun kissing her, and by the time he laid her down their coupling was urgent, unrestrained. 

Other times they explored each other slowly, skin to skin, as they'd been when she'd held him in Harrenhal.  Harrenhal, where she'd fallen in love with him. Oh, the dreams were there, too. And their truce was consummated in the concealing steam of the baths. 

Not all of the dreams were intimate, but those were her favorites. Perhaps because she refused to feel embarrassed or guilty about them any longer. Jaime's death had freed her to admit to herself how much she'd loved him. _But you loved him_ , she heard Cersei's voice in her head, accusing. _Yes, yes I did_ , she'd answer, holding her head high. _He saved me. More than once. He might have loved me, too_. 

And then she would curl onto her side, and weep some more. She had shed so many tears that it was a wonder she hadn't shriveled up and turned to dust. At least when she went among people again, her eyes would be dry, every tear she would ever shed, used up in the space of days.

After five days had passed, Brienne got up one morning and decided that she was ready to resume her life. Pod was overjoyed, though he still threw worried looks her way now and then. Brienne threw herself into training her students, was exceptionally tough on Pod, though he'd actually improved in her absence, and went after Arya as though she were not the daughter of a noble house, and was grimly amused to see the self-satisfied smirk disappear as Brienne out-maneuvered her again and again. 

She still took her meals in her room, but she scavenged the food herself. The hall was still full of speculation over the great battle and the dragon queen, and Brienne heard the name "Lannister" often enough to know that she'd not keep her composure long in company. 

Nearly two weeks had passed since Jaime's death, when Brienne received a summons from her lady. She immediately felt guilty; she'd barely thought of Sansa, so focused she'd been on drilling her students until they could practically fight in their sleep. 

She thanked the page who'd come to her in the crypt and made her excuses to Arya and Bran. Arya, holding her ribs and panting, waved her away. Bran didn't even look up. The snow was falling heavily when she emerged from the tombs, and walked rapidly across the deserted courtyard to the keep. 

The Lady of Winterfell stood before a roaring fire, statuesque and serious. Lady Catelyn would have been proud to see her eldest daughter, now grown into the mantle of leadership. Sansa was holding a couple of sheets of parchment, her greeting to Brienne perfunctory as she scanned its contents. 

"I've been invited by Queen Cersei to come to a gathering King's Landing to 'discuss' the war. Discuss!" Sansa threw the papers in fire and turned back to Brienne, still several paces away. "I want you to go."

"Of course, my lady. Will you be on horseback or in a litter? Podrick and I will escort –"

Sansa picked up another sheet of the parchment covered in crabbed, faded writing, and walked back to the fire, "I'm not going to King's Landing. You will go, in my place." 

Brienne felt a shiver of trepidation. As a hostage? Or to meet with Cersei Lannister? _Gods, no_. She'd never be able to face that woman, not with Jaime gone. "I don't understand. What would the queen want with _me_?"

"You will be my representative. It's all very proper. You are a Lady, and sworn to me," Sansa looked up at Brienne quickly, just long enough for Brienne to catch the twinge of guilt in her eyes. "It is an honorable role, Lady Brienne."

What had honor to do with this? Sansa wanting to send her away - to King's Landing of all paces! Brienne clenched her fists, wanting to remind her that Lady Catelyn had also sent her away to King's Landing. The consequences had been tragic.  

"My lady, it is you that they wish to see. If you will not go, perhaps you could send another in your stead, while I continue to guard you here?"

Sansa turned from the fire, her eyes cold, "I have many guards, Brienne. I do not need to be watched over, or minded. I was in no danger while you were ill," she glanced at the paper again and then gave it, too, to the fire. " _You_ will represent my interests at this gathering as you see them."

"My lady, you are the Lady of Winterfell. The invitation was for you."

"I will not set foot in King's Landing while Cersei is queen. If they want another Stark prisoner, they can come and take me." Sansa sat down at the table facing Brienne, "The safest place for me is here."

Here, with Little Finger. With undead wights to the north. With certain northern lords agitating for treason against their declared king. "It's not safe," Brienne said flatly.

"Ser Jaime will be there," Sansa said, picking up a narrow scroll, it's edges curling in, "you said he treated you honorably before."

Brienne's heart lurched painfully, but she kept her composure, "Ser Jaime is dead." 

"Apparently not," Sansa said wryly, setting the scroll down on the desk among several other coiled strips. 

_He couldn't be_ -"But – but the raven –" Brienne's left hand tightened around Oathkeeper's hilt. 

Sansa waved her hand, allowing herself a little smile, "That's Jon, telling exciting stories without having all of the facts. We received a second raven a few days later, from Ser Davos. I could hardly read his writing, but he reports that he's been to King's Landing on some business of Jon's.  His sources there confirm that Ser Jaime is re-forming his armies after they were routed a fortnight ago."

"It can't be, my lady," Brienne said, pushing back against the hope swelling in her breast.

"Nevertheless, he lives.  Jon wasn't even there; it must have been some other fool that charged the dragon. " 

"I suppose so, my lady." Brienne knew she should continue to argue for Sansa's safety, but could no longer find the motivation to do so, "Am I to report to Jaime Lannister when I arrive, or to the queen?"

"I'll leave that up to you, Lady Brienne," Sansa said dismissively, " the trip to King's Landing is long, and you won't be traveling on summer roads. You'll have plenty of time to think about it whilst you travel."

"Yes, my lady," Brienne said, "I shall leave at once."

"See that you do," Sansa said. "And take Podrick with you; he mopes when you're not around."

Brienne assured her that she would, and left the hall, making her way back out to the dark and deserted courtyard. Silent snow swirled around her as she walked toward the stables to request her and Podrick's horses be made ready.

Her steps slowed, and she stopped some yards from the stable gate. _Jaime is alive_. _Alive!_  Brienne laughed, joy making her giddy. It didn't matter that Jaime would be with Cersei, or that her own feelings for him were stronger than ever. To be near him again, to see him again, would be enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I believe this is the end of this particular fic, though if I were to continue it, I would pick up with Brienne on the road back to Winterfell, unaware that Jaime was also headed north, alone. :-) 
> 
> Comments, as always, are much appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to see Brienne's reaction to hearing that Jaime "died" in the loot train battle, but, sadly, we got no such scene. As always, where canon fails, insert fanfiction. This was written just prior to S7E5.
> 
> Thank you for reading - comments welcome!


End file.
